


In need of a keeper

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're older now, and a bit slower than they used to be, shadows of the young men they once were still running beside the men with their canes and broken gaits.  Maybe it's time to retire...</p>
            </blockquote>





	In need of a keeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> Based loosely on this lovely obit that's been floating around the fandom: http://tinyurl.com/kutvqsu. That, and the comment made by AtlinMerrick that she'd love to see a happy fic about it, in addition to the very moving fics that have been written.

It was all of three o'clock in the afternoon, and barely that, when Sherlock stopped in his tracks on the pavement, tilted his head to one side, then the other, reminding John of a very curious airedale, and breathed a near-silent _Ah_. Sherlock bolted, doing nothing so undignified as attempting to run with his shiny new cane but definitely walking at a good clip, and John, as he had done for nearly two decades, followed. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, you lanky damned git...” John huffed as he hurried, lungs still not quite recovered from the pulmonary embolism which had driven him into retirement (well... almost-retirement. Semi-retirement. Not really retirement, if he were to be honest. More like...he took the better part of the summer off and don't think for one second that he hadn't noticed Sherlock scaling back his physical involvement in cases for the Yard since the incident...). John gave up trying to shout Sherlock down and instead focused on keeping the riot of salt-and-pepper curls within sight. He followed Sherlock down a narrow alleyway and onto a slightly wider, cobblestone lane. A low wall ran along both sides, dappled with moss and overgrown, flowering vines, which Sherlock took as a personal challenge. He tossed his cane over the wall and followed, albeit less gracefully than a few years before, leaving John to trot along side. “Sherlock, I swear I will leave you stranded in Sussex and Mycroft will have to come pick you up if you don't slow down this instant!”

“Hurry along, John! This is a rare treat!” Sherlock grinned over his shoulder at John and doubled his speed, laughing when John's sharp curse reached his ears. “Not so loud, love, there's a funeral in progress!”

John came to a halt, stumbling over his own feet as Sherlock ducked under a low branch and disappeared into what was obviously private property, the shadows of the old trees swallowing his coat-clad figure easily. “A...Sherlock! Wait! For the love of...” He struggled and grunted and thanked whoever was listening to the prayers of not-quite-old-men that no one could see him heave himself over the wall, and called after Sherlock again.

“Do hurry, John!” Sherlock replied, only a few meters ahead. “This won't last long!” He seized John's hand as he drew even and squeezed. “Come. This will be magnificient.”

“Oh, God...”

The first thing John noticed was the small turn-out. A handful of people, mostly elderly but a few around his age and and a girl who looked to be in her mid-teens mixed in, stood around an open grave in the old cemetery. A vine-covered cottage stood not far off, a wreath wrapped in black crepe hanging on the door. Sherlock stopped at the edge of the cemetery, eyes wide and child-like. “Listen, John. _Bees._ ” 

John wondered why he hadn't noticed before. The hum was certainly loud enough, like the low sound of a distant generator. He followed Sherlock's rapt gaze and saw them, then: tiny pale spots on the mourners, even more on the blonde wood coffin. Even more on the old headstones nearest the open grave. Sherlock raised his arm and pointed towards the area just past the cemetery. Old-fashioned hives, the kind John always associated with Winnie-the-Pooh, were draped in black crepe. “The bees must be told when their keeper dies,” Sherlock murmured, barely giving breath to the words. “Otherwise, they will leave.”

“You're telling me these bees...are in mourning?” John replied softly. “They're...they've been told their keeper died and they are attending the funeral?”

“Bees are brilliant, John.” Sherlock shot him a scathing look and added, “If you would ever pay attention to my monographs, you'd know this.” 

John rolled his eyes, but admitted to himself that the phenomenon was rather moving. And a bit creepy, if he were to be honest. A bee buzzed up to them as the funeral wound to a close, the mourners shifting and moving in a small, black-garbed wave towards the house. Two men in coveralls came forward from the shadows of the trees opposite and began moving the coffin into the grave-proper. Sherlock, however, didn't look away from the bee perched on his lapel. “Come on, love,” John murmured. “We should go.”

“Shhh.” Sherlock smiled at the bee with a soft fondness that made John's heart ache with love an a hint of sorrow. “We can't go yet.”

“Sherlock...”

“John, I think it's time we retire.” He glanced up at the house and his smile grew into something boyish and keen. “And I know just the place.”

John's mouth gaped as Sherlock set off at a brisk pace towards the house of mourning. “Wait! Sherlock! Wait! They've just buried their loved one!”

“And they're going to sell the house! None of them are interested in keeping the bees! You can tell by their shoes! Come on, John! Let's make them an offer!”

John groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Sherlock!”

“Quick as you please,” Sherlock called back. “The bees need a keeper!”


End file.
